


A Crooked Mile

by paramountie



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Bat Family, Books, Family Bonding, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-20 11:51:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10662009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paramountie/pseuds/paramountie
Summary: Bruce, Jason, and Agatha Christie. Through the years.





	A Crooked Mile

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my lovely betas, freeyukimakoto and pavonem! Also shoutout to my friend Brooke, who inspired one of the moments in this story. 
> 
> Title from the nursery rhyme, "There Was a Crooked Man". 
> 
> Spoilers for _And Then There Were None_ and _Towards Zero_.

It all started the morning that Bruce found Jason standing in the middle of the manor library. His brow was furrowed, his shoulders were slumped, and his hands were buried in the pockets of his overlarge hoodie. He was glaring at the books on the shelves like they’d personally offended him. For a minute Bruce just stood there, watching the curly top of Jason’s head and trying to fight off the wave of endearment threatening to overcome him.

“Problem, Jay?” he asked, as neutrally as possible. Jason turned towards him. The frown on his face didn't shift an inch.

“You've got a hell of a lot of books in here, Bruce,” he said. His tone implied that the books were some sort of vermin that needed to be exterminated.

“Language,” Bruce said absentmindedly. Jason didn't appear at all chastised. “And is that a problem?”

“Where the he… where are you supposed to start?”

Bruce felt the corner of his mouth twitch upwards. Just when he thought he knew everything about this kid, he’d come out with something like this.

“What kind of books do you like?” Bruce asked, already compiling several different recommendation lists in his head. One for each genre.

“I don’t know,” Jason said, curling in on himself just the tiniest bit. He seemed suddenly self-conscious. “Adventure, I guess. Interesting stuff. Detective stories.”

At this, Bruce allowed himself to smile.

“I think I can help you out,” Bruce said, “I used to read a lot of detective stories when I was your age.”

“I don’t think you were ever my age, old man,” Jason replied. A remark Bruce chose to ignore, as he was already skimming the shelves. It was always impossible for Bruce to remember whether he put his Sherlock Holmes in with the Cs, or the Ds.

There it was. _The Complete Sherlock Holmes_. Leather-bound and heavy, with gilt edges on the pages. When Bruce’s mother first presented it to him, Bruce remembered thinking that it was beautiful. Although shortly after, he started to have nightmares about the hound emblazoned on the front. Every night he’d run from it’s wild eyes and dripping jaws, but every morning he’d wake up and start reading again.

After all this time the book was worn out. There was a break in the spine and most of the gold had rubbed off the edges. The hound was fading. The pages were feather-soft.

He took down the book and he handed it to Jason. He’d always wanted to lend it to Dick, but Dick never seemed interested. Bruce thought the only time that Dick ever went in the library was the first week, when he was determined to explore every nook and cranny of the manor. Bruce remembered how wide Dick’s eyes got when he first saw the library. He’d stood in the doorway, muttered “wowza” to himself, and looked around appraisingly, hand on his hips.

“How much trouble will I be in if I make a book fort out of these?” Dick had asked, and Bruce, hovering behind him, shook his head.

“A lot,” he replied, and Dick’s smile didn’t even dim.

“I’ll just wait until you’re on a business trip.”

Bruce never knew if Dick ever made good on his promise. He didn’t think that Jason would ever attempt such brazen desecration. Jay was looking down at the _The Complete Sherlock Holmes_ like it was a holy thing. There was a pure reverence in his gaze that Bruce had only ever seen directed at hot dogs with all the toppings.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he read out loud, “That’s the guy with the magnifying glass right? And the hat?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah,” Jason said, suddenly authoritative, “I know him. My old library used to put a picture of him on all the mystery books.”

“He’s essential,” Bruce said, “Many fictional detectives are inspired by him.”

“Oh yeah?” Jason said, turning the book over in his hands, “Maybe this won’t be so bad.”

Less than a month later, Jason came down to breakfast, lugging the book with him. It was almost the size of Jason’s torso, but somehow, he’d managed to fit the whole thing under his school arm. The scowl Bruce remembered from the library was back on his face. Before Bruce could say anything, Jason plopped the book down on the table, rattling Bruce’s glass of orange juice.

“No reading at the breakfast table,” Bruce said. It was a rule that they’d had to instate a week after Jason had discovered the library. Normally, it would pain Bruce to stop a child from reading, but Jason was a special case. It was impossible to pry that boy’s nose from a book. If Bruce didn’t stop him, he’d never talk to anyone ever again. He’d even started to resent training. Every time, he’d leave his book right at the edge of the exercise mat and constantly cast fond, sorrowful glances in its direction.

There was also the problem of food stains on the Wayne family’s incredibly expensive collection.

“I’m not reading,” Jason said. A frequent lie. “I finished it. What now?”

“You’re already finished?” Bruce asked.

“Yeah. It’s only nine books. I read way more than that every month.”

He said this like it was normal for a child his age. Like it was normal for any person reading _The Complete Sherlock Holmes_. It had taken Bruce years to get through all of the stories.

“How many books do you read every month?” Bruce asked. Some part of him wanted to take notes. Do some sort of study on preteen bookworms.

“I don’t know,” Jason said, as he leaned forward to pick through the bowl of fruit Alfred had left on the table, “Around 13. 14 maybe. One month I read 20 books, but I didn’t get a lot of sleep. I got real sick afterwards. Although then I had more time to read, so I didn’t really learn my lesson.”

Jason grabbed a shiny red apple and tossed it back and forth between his hands.

“Am I going to have to start checking on you at night to make sure you’re asleep?” Bruce asked. Jason froze, apple in his mouth. Eventually, there came a muffled, “No?”

“Mm-hmm,” Bruce said, turning back to his omelet. “Eat your breakfast.”

Jason climbed into his chair, curling his feet up onto the seat. For a moment, Bruce considered correcting his posture, but any minute now Alfred would come in and chastise Jason himself. There really was no point to Bruce doing it.

“You never answered my question,” Jason said, as he folded the top pancake of his stack in half and shoved the whole thing into his mouth. Bruce watched, somewhat appalled. Alfred could probably correct that too. And truly, who was Bruce to stop one child’s innovation?

“Question?” Bruce asked, unable to tear his eyes away from the rapidly disappearing stack of pancakes.

“What do I read now?”

“Ah,” Bruce said, “Do you want more mysteries, or something different?”

“More mysteries. Duh,” Jason said, “Aren’t you supposed to be a detective?”

“I don’t think any detective could decipher the inner workings of your mind, Jay,” Bruce said, and Jason wiggled in his seat, pleased. “And since you’ve read the quintessential detective, I think the next step is to try out the master of the mystery novel.”

“You mean Arthur Conan Doyle isn’t the master?”

“He did well,” Bruce said, “But he didn’t perfect the form.”

“Who did?”

“I’ll show you after you eat your breakfast.”

Somehow, Jason’s subsequent groan managed to last for the rest of the meal.

***

An hour later, they were both sitting on the floor of the library, almost sixty books spread out in a circle around them.

“How come I’ve never heard of Agatha Christie?” Jason asked, as he picked up a crisp copy of _Sparkling Cyanide_ and rifled through the pages.

“Not everyone knows how influential she was,” Bruce replied, “Even though she’s the bestselling novelist of all time.”

“Really?” Jason said. He flipped forward onto his belly so that he could reach the books on the outer edges of the circle. “Is she really that good?”

“Yes,” Bruce said. “Although she’s written more than sixty novels, and not all of them are perfect.”

“Have you read all her books?”

“No,” Bruce said, picking up a downright battered copy of _Crooked House_. He ran his finger absentmindedly over the silver-embossed lines of the title.

“Why not?” Jason asked. He’d already picked up another book with a raven on the cover, beak wrenched open in an eternal screech.

“I haven’t had the time,” Bruce said.

“Excuses, excuses.”

“I am Batman, Jay.”

“So what?” Jason said. He was examining the list of Christie’s works at the beginning of the novel. “There’s always time to read.”

There was no point in questioning him. Jason could get incredibly stubborn when it came to defending his favorite hobby. Once, Bruce had caught him in the middle of an hour long debate with Alfred over whether reading or sleep was more important for a Child’s Mind. He could clearly remember Jason, standing on the bed in his plaid pajamas, waving his book in the air like an especially motivated lawyer. And Alfred, next to the bed, tapping his chin and nodding whenever Jason made an especially compelling point.

“I suppose so,” Bruce said, “Where do you want to start? I have a few different recommendations.”

“Which is the first one?” Jason asked, “I want to read them in order.”

There was no point in questioning him about this either.

“Alright,” Bruce said, combing through the pile. “You’ll start with _The Mysterious Affair at Styles_. Written when Christie was a nurse during World War One, and introducing one of Christie’s most iconic characters, Hercule Poirot.”

***

Bruce quickly discovered that Jason absolutely hated the expensive first editions that populated the manor library. _Where are you supposed to read those things? Space?_ Jason would ask, as he broke the spine of his favorite beat-up paperback, _You can’t read them anywhere on Earth without getting some dirt on ‘em_.

And Jason loved being able to read anywhere on Earth. He wouldn’t leave the house (wouldn’t even leave his bed in the morning) without shoving a paperback into his front pants pocket. He even brought paperbacks out on patrol. Every time Bruce cleaned out the batmobile, he’d find at least three bent-up novels, shoved into any available crevice. On one notable occasion, while Jason was delivering a roundhouse kick into one of the Penguin’s goons, a copy of _Murder at the Vicarage_ slipped out of his pocket. Bruce hadn’t known there were pockets in the Robin costume large enough to accommodate a novel. To be frank, he hadn't even known there were pockets at all.

“Miss Marple,” said the goon, from his spot plastered to the pavement, “Good choice.”

At that point, Bruce had to knock him out. If he stayed conscious, Jason might start talking books with him. Then they'd be there all night.

“You shouldn't bring books on patrol,” he told Jason later, as they were driving back to the Batcave. Jason sighed, long and exasperated, and pressed his face against the tinted glass of the window.

“Alright, Bruce,” he said, agreeable in a way he only ever was when he knew he'd be ignoring Bruce's orders. “No more books on patrol.”

“I mean it. I'll start checking your pockets before we leave.”

“Alright, Bruce.” But there was a flash of a crooked smile across Jason’s face. The kid was probably going to start hiding books under his costume now.

***

Predictably, the only time Jason got in trouble in school was for reading. To his teachers’ despair, books were the only thing Jason valued more than his grades. He got his first detention for reading in Geography instead of taking notes.

“It's Geography!” Jason whined, when Bruce attempted to scold him, “I can read a map!”

Bruce couldn't exactly argue with this. If Jason's classes weren't advanced enough, he shouldn't have to suffer through them. Still, it wasn't like Bruce could tell the teachers that.

Of course, Bruce tried. The teachers weren't pleased. And it wasn't like Bruce could transfer Jason into a class more advanced than honors. When he suggested homeschool, Jason had pretended to gag on his Froot Loops. Which was probably a no.

So Bruce resigned himself to learning of even more detentions, and acting as Jason’s eternal book supplier whenever his novels were confiscated. On one notable occasion, he caught Jason attempting to shove seven books into his bag before they left for school.

“Mr. Hammond keeps taking them away,” Jason explained as he carefully arranged the contents of his backpack. It wasn't quite large enough to fit any extra items, but by God was Jason going to try. “So every time he takes one, I just pull another one out of my desk.”

“That's ingenious, Jay,” Bruce said, because it was. He should give the kid some credit, even if he sounded like a criminal mastermind.

“I know,” said Jason, as he began his valiant struggle to zip his backpack closed.

***

Sometimes Bruce worried. Jason had been tearing through Agatha Christie’s works like there was no tomorrow. They were good books. Interesting. Nowhere near as disturbing as some of the mystery novels published these days. But reading about murder day and night couldn’t be good for him. Not when horrible crimes filled most of his nights anyway.

Being Robin was good for him. Bruce knew it was. It gave Jason purpose, and focus. But Bruce didn’t want that to be all that Jason had.

***

“So the killer in _And Then There Were None_. Was he a villain, or a hero?”

Jason had been quiet the past few weeks. And moody. Even before the incident with the diplomat’s son, he hadn't been his usual self. Most of the time, he was funny. Chatty. But the past month or so he’d spent more time staring into the distance than talking.

To be honest, Bruce had no idea what to do with him. How to make things right. It seemed like every step Bruce could take led to just another minefield. He didn't want to hurt Jason while trying to help him. He didn't want to hurt Jason at all.

And this question wasn't just a minefield. It was a wasp’s nest, and Bruce's answer was a flying stick. No matter what that answer may be.

“I don't think anyone in that novel is heroic,” Bruce said. They were sitting on a rooftop. It felt like Bruce was covered in more bruises than skin. But the first opalescent sunlight of the morning was spilling across Gotham’s skyline, and Jason was next to him, whole and alive. That was all that mattered, really.

“You don't?” Jason asked. His voice was quieter than usual. Tentative.

“They're all killers,” Bruce said, which wasn't what he’d meant to say. He didn’t think that that was a lesson Jason needed tonight. “But more than that, they're cruel. Selfish. Even the judge admits that it wasn't just about justice to him. He liked to kill. That makes him villainous.”

“What if he didn't like to kill,” Jason asked, crossing his arms across his chest. “What if he hated it, but he wanted to stop those people anyway?”

Jason was staring down at his own feet. Most of the time, Jason was full to the brim with restless energy. Some part of him was always shaking, kicking, tapping. But now he was still, perfectly still, and Bruce hated to see it.

“There's always another way,” Bruce said. He thought he saw something like tears brimming under Jason’s eyes. They were a soft pink in the light. “Or at least there should be.”

“Alright,” Jason said, “That makes sense.”

***

After Jason died, it took Bruce months to go back into the library. That room had never been anyone's the way it had been Jason’s. He ate there, he slept there. His homework assignments were still spread out across the window seat. It seemed that he would return at any moment with an apple he'd stolen from the kitchen. Sit down, start scribbling, and tell Bruce to stop distracting him.

The first time Bruce saw this, he thought that he might split in half.

There was a book sitting next to Jason’s backpack, because of course there was a book. Jason had hidden it underneath one of his math textbooks. Probably so that Alfred wouldn't scold him when he came in. It was a worn copy of _The Moving Finger_ that Bruce had picked up for ninety cents on the way home from work one day.

Inside, there was a list of Agatha Christie’s works. Jason had been carefully crossing out titles as he finished them. The page was halfway covered in dark pencil lines. But the clear white half made Bruce’s chest ache.

He left the rest as it was, but he kept the book.

***

Bruce didn't think about it (wouldn't let himself think about it) until almost two years after Jason came back. It was a week before Jason’s birthday, and things had been getting easier between them. Not easy, but easier. Jason never talked much to Bruce, but Bruce had caught him kidding around with Cass on a rooftop one day. The next week he’d knocked Tim out of the path of a flying bullet. During a fight with the Scarecrow, he and Dick had even cracked a few jokes. They hadn't tried to kill each other at all.

Nothing was fixed yet, but it was something. Bruce didn't know if he could allow himself to feel hopeful.

Then Jason’s birthday came around.

Bruce hadn't forgotten it. He never forgot any of the kids’ birthdays. But he didn't know how he was supposed to celebrate Jason's. He didn't even know if Jason celebrated his own birthday anymore. When he was young, it used to be his favorite day of the year. He'd spend the month before reminding everyone that it was coming up. Then, he'd spend the month after telling everyone about the momentous occasion.

His first birthday with Bruce he'd been too proud (or too shy) to ask for anything. But the year after he'd given Bruce a long list of the books he wanted, with clear instructions about where to buy them.

Needless to say, he hadn't given Bruce a list this year. But of course, Bruce had his own.

So on August 13, Bruce found himself hovering in front of the mystery section of what used to be Jason’s favorite used bookstore. It was cramped, and dusty. The smell of old paper permeated the place and books were stacked up everywhere in huge, unsteady towers. When Jason used to come here, he’d spend hour after hour combing through just one section of the store. He’d come back to Bruce with at least ten books he needed to buy _today_. And Bruce would buy every single one. After all, the combined price rarely went over twenty dollars.

There seemed to be about a hundred different Agatha Christie books alone. They came in every possible shape, size, and color. Some of them were tiny, with water damage and titles worn to illegibility. Some of them were big, glossy, and expensive. There were four separate copies of the book that was next on Jason’s list, _Towards Zero_ . Bruce pulled them all off the shelf, weighed them in his hands. He was sure that Jason would prefer the cheapest one, despite its yellowing pages and the cheesy tennis racket emblazoned on the cover. Perhaps because of both of those things.

But maybe Jason wasn’t like that anymore. It could make him angry if Bruce, with all of his money, only bought him a musty paperback from a used bookstore.

He held the little book in his hands. It made him think of Jason. Regardless of whether or not Jason was going to like it. Books like this always made him think about Jason. Perhaps that was what mattered, in the end.

He bought the book. Hovered over it with a pencil. Finally he wrote “This one’s my favorite. -B” in neat, cramped letters on the inside of the front cover. He wrapped up both that book and the book with Jason’s list in crisp red paper. Then he gave them to Alfred to deliver.

He wanted to deliver the books himself, but he didn’t know how. Anything he did might feel like an invasion.

After that, there wasn’t much else to do. He wanted Jason to have the book, whether he acknowledged the gift or not.

***

Jason didn’t come to find him until a week later. Bruce was on the roof of the courthouse. It was a quiet night. He’d spent most of it on that rooftop, enjoying the calm and the cool air. Nights in Gotham were never particularly beautiful, but they had a special kind of elegance to them. Alarms going off, cars humming by. Shouting and laughter.

The bustling noise of Gotham was interrupted by the the thump of someone landing behind him. He didn’t have to turn to know it was Jason. Jason was always heavy-footed when he came to confront Bruce.

“Evening,” Bruce said, not turning around.

Jason didn’t say anything as he shuffled to the spot next to Bruce. For a long time they just stood there, watching the city move. Jason had his helmet on, but his body was expressive. Bruce had always been able to tell what he was feeling from the way he held his head and slumped his shoulders. Not that that knowing ever helped much.

That day, there was something open about his posture. His arms were swinging by his sides. His shoulders were loose. Bruce tried not to interpret any of that too positively.

“I can’t believe Audrey left her husband,” Jason said, after several moments of silence. It took Bruce a minute to understand what he was talking about. The book, he realized finally, of course it was the book. “I knew her ex was the killer, but I never guessed that _that_ was the motive.”

“Audrey seemed so heartbroken,” Bruce said, “You’d never think that it was because her lover died.”

“Agatha Christie really is the master,” Jason said, as he moved to sit cross-legged on the ledge. For a second he looked small. Almost as small as he had the first time Bruce met him. “Every time I think I have things figured out, she throws in another twist.”

Bruce remembered reading _Towards Zero_ the first time. He’d stayed up until past midnight, reading under the covers with a smuggled flashlight. When he'd gotten to that part of the story, he'd been so shocked he wanted to leap out of bed and wake the whole manor.

He could almost imagine Jason doing the same.

“No one else can compare,” Bruce said, “She's done it all. She invented most of it.”

There was a pause. For a second, Bruce thought Jason might thank him.

Instead he said: “You ever finish reading all her books?”

When Bruce didn’t reply immediately, Jason groaned.

“Come _on_ , old man!” he said, throwing his hands in the air. “You’ve had so much time!”

“I’m busy, Jason.”

“Retire already!” he yelled. He wasn’t quite laughing, but he was somewhere close to it. “You’re so old, who knows how long your body will last? You need to make time for what’s important.” At the word “important”, he poked Bruce in the middle of his chest. Right above the bat’s head.

“I think protecting the city is important,” Bruce said, and Jason scoffed.

“That comes second,” Jason said, “Reading first.”

“Whatever you say.”

Rolling his shoulders, Jason slid off the ledge.

“I’ll be checking in,” he said, “I hope by next month you’ve made some headway.”

His words were confident, but his voice was quiet. Letting himself smile, Bruce reached over and put a hand on Jason’s shoulder.

“I’ll try not to disappoint, Jay.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can talk to me about the batfam and Agatha Christie on my [tumblr](http://www.paramountie.tumblr.com)! 
> 
> Also my gf has informed me that 14 books a month is (apparently) not that many. It seemed like a lot to me when I was reading 14 books a month, Catherine!!


End file.
